Huff, Puff: The Cleaner's Story
by browntrowsers
Summary: Even though he takes it seriously, Tyrus resents operating the Cleaner beneath Goblin City. He hates it so much that, in order make it through his day, he focused only on his breathing so that his idiot brother won't slow him down. But when he and his team fail the Goblin King, Tyrus must learn to deal with the consequences-however startling and unexpected they seem.


Tyrus huffed his pink, flabby cheeks, concentrated on sucking in more air than he pushed out. Concentration was difficult, though, because of the noise—the clanging, the scraping, the sound of blood-soaked metal sharpening against the stone beneath the labyrinth—but he did what he could so he wouldn't tire himself out too quickly. Exhaustion made the last hour of his job even more unbearable.

The Cleaner struck something, a stray brick or body, maybe even a locked gate, something big enough to rattle the deadly machine, to knock Tyrus's his helmet over his eyes. He pushed the cheap tin bowl back onto his head. It's not that he needed to see—as long as he kept hopping on his pedal, the Cleaner moved where it wanted to. Anyways, there was nothing to see but rows of grey bricks and shafts of sunlight that blew past him as they puttered through the tunnels.

 _Huff, puff_ , Tyrus repeated to himself in his head. _Huff, puff. Long breath in, quick breath out._ If he concentrated on his breathing, Tyrus wouldn't have the time dwell on how brutal and unrewarding his job was.

"Do you think we got 'em?" Teetom asked between breaths. Unlike his brother, Teetom seldom concentrated on his breathing, which meant he always tired out too soon—and that Tyrus had pick up his slack. Teetom hopped on one of the Cleaner's pedals while Tyrus worked the other; a huge, rusty wheel spun between them.

 _Huff, puff_ , Tyrus kept repeating, trying to tune out his brother's stupidity. _Huff, puff._

"We got 'em," Nyro giggled on the platform ahead of them. He and his brother Kyro worked the hand crank, though they always seemed more interested in chatting than cleaning the sewers.

"No way," Kyro squealed. "We woulda felt it."

"Yes way!" Nyro yelled, lifting his hands from the crank and shoving his brother.

 _Huff, puff_ , Tyrus thought, concentrating on keeping each breath consistent. _Huff, puff_. He felt Teetom's giggle reverberate through the pedal, heard his dumb chuckle above the slicing machinery ahead of them, and tried to ignore it. Still, he hopped more ferociously on his pedal, heard himself growling beneath his breath.

"No way!"

"Yes way!"

"Will you three shut it?!" Tyrus screeched, his helmet wobbling on his head. "We have a job to do, and if we don't do it, Jareth is going to—"

Just then, the Cleaner stopped suddenly, knocking all four of its operators from their positions. Tyrus crashed onto the platform ahead of him, then felt the weight of his brother bouncing on his belly, knocking the breath out of him. He felt Kyro and Nyro thud into the back of the cleaner's drill, heard their meager bodies flop to the concrete beneath like a couple of ragdolls.

Before Tyrus even knew they had crashed the Cleaner into something, he opened his eyes to see a small, furry goblin scamper past. "Ooh, you in trouble!" it snickered.

"Double trouble," a second, tubbier goblin weighed down by a full coat armor said as he tottered away.

"Ah, the Cleaners!" Tyrus heard an unmistakable voice. He opened his eyes just in time to see Jareth the Goblin King swagger from the shadows, his vibrant mane shimmering in the sunlight cast through a sewer cover overhead. His sharp eyes seemed to glare in constant disapproval, and his smirk stiffened on his chiseled chin.

It took almost no time for Kyro and Nyro to scramble onto their feet, skittering past Jareth in the same direction to which those goblins disappear. Their fearful cries echoed through the sewer, bouncing from brick to brick. Teetom flopped off of the platform as well; huffing and puffing, he followed them into the darkness. Why Jareth didn't stop them, Tyrus wasn't sure. But, then again, Tyrus couldn't think about much else besides the lighting crackling through his back and his lungs' inability to draw in air.

 _Huff, puff_ , Tyrus repeated to himself, trying to calm himself down and kick his lungs into gear. _Huff, puff. Long breath in, quick breath out._

The Goblin King stepped through the darkness like he owned that stretch of sewer, his cape fluttering behind him, tangling in the dim. "Tyrus, is it?" he said, kneeling down beside the tusked gremlin. "So how'd we do? Did you get the girl? That hobgoblin she was with?" He spoke with an insincere sense of curiosity, as if he already knew the answer.

Tyrus couldn't find enough air to respond. Instead, he whispered whatever syllables he could spare; they came out dusty and incoherent.

"That's what I thought," Jareth said, his devilish smile drooping. "What happened to you, Tyrus? I thought you were the most efficient cleaner of them all? That's what everyone told me, at least."

"I'm sorry, Goblin King," Tyrus gasped. For a moment, he wondered if he could escape Jareth as the others had, if he had the energy and courage. Gently, he rolled from side to side, hoping to build just enough momentum to topple off of the Cleaner's platform, to tumble onto his feet, to run as fast as his stumpy legs would let him.

"It's a shame, really," Jareth added. "It makes me wonder if you're past your prime—if maybe you'd be better suited to another job."

Tyrus's eyes bulged. He wobbled back and forth more forcefully, kicking his stubby legs in a panic, sensing that something horrible was about to happen to him. His tin helmet fell from his head, clanged on the concrete beneath him.

But Jareth wasted no time. He twisted his gloved hand, turned it over Tyrus's huffing, puffing face. Tyrus felt his body squish, felt his neck and legs stretch. It felt strange, but more uncomfortable than painful. His long tusks retreated into his face, and his stout nose sharpened, hardened into a curved beak. All around his body, he felt the strange, tingling sensation of black feathers sprouting from his skin.

The journey to the Goblin City took almost no time. Tucked beneath Jareth's arm, Tyrus felt safe, comfortable, at peace despite the fear he had suffered through; he felt the stress of a Cleaner shake away from him with each of Jareth's steps, as they climbed out of the sewer, as they felt the soft heat of the sun as it filtered through the clouds.

"Be free, Tyrus," Jareth said, tossing the chicken into the slimy, abandoned streets of the Goblin City. "Be free."

Tyrus let loose a quiet cluck as his chicken claws landed onto the bricks; not yet used to walking on such long, slender legs, he spread his wings to keep his balance. He twisted his head around to look at the city, having never seen it before—at least not on the surface. Tall stone towers leaned against the amber sky, and the slender streets twisted between squat abodes with steep roofs. It was a city comprised of shut wooden doors, dark windows, and eerie silence.

"Maybe next time you'll think twice before failing me," Jareth muttered as he walked away from Tyrus, disappearing around the corner, his gait mimicking the smooth flutter of his cape.

Tyrus clucked again. He hardly understood what had happened to him, but he understood one thin: He had failed the Goblin King, and he had been transformed into sort of fowl as a punishment. But, in a way, it wasn't a punishment at all. In fact, for the first time in as long as he could remember, Tyrus felt free—of his brother Teetom, of Kyro and Nyro, of the Cleaner. As a chicken, his life would be much simpler, and he could concentrate on so much more than his breathing.

He stretched his black wings as wide as he could, scratched is claws, and crowed as loud as he could. His new voice echoed through the streets, ricocheted between the stone towers and streets. And even when he felt the sting of a spitball against his tail feathers, shot by a familiar looking goblin weighed down by a full coat of armor, he never felt more free.


End file.
